Destiny's Dawn

Summary

The Sax dynasty continues as the family saga moves from Texas to a new life in the wild and dangerous land of the West. Caleb’s son Tom rides the outlaw trail to search for men who killed his Mexican wife, and Caleb’s grandson grows up to marry a Cheyenne woman, returning to the life that Caleb left so long ago. Yet Caleb’s youngest son resists his mixed blood and goes to great lengths to hide his Indian heritage. Through stunning changes over years of settling the West, Caleb and Sarah’s love and passion for each other becomes the glue that holds their family together through tragedy and triumph. And all his life Caleb keeps the blue quill necklace his long-dead mother made for him, reminding him of his Indian blood and the Indian name he never forgot – Blue Hawk. Destiny’s Dawn brings this trilogy to an unforgettable ending that will stay with readers long after they finish.

PRAISE:

“Power, passion, tragedy, and triumph are Rosanne Bittner’s hallmarks. Again and again, she brings readers to tears.” —Romantic Times

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Destiny's Dawn - Rosanne Bittner

• Chapter One •

Caleb Sax rose, blood dripping from his arms and hands. One of his best mares lay at his feet with her new foal beside her, both of them dead. In vain he had reached inside the mother to turn the foal; and he would never forget that feeling of warm life in his hands, followed by cold death.

As he looked away from the pitiful sight, Caleb saw them, four Cheyenne warriors looking down at him from a rise perhaps fifty yards away. They were mounted on grand, painted horses, watching him quietly. They wore nothing but loincloths and a little paint, two of them with feathers in their hair.

You think they mean trouble, Caleb? Jess Purnell asked the question. Jess was Caleb’s son-in-law. He had come along with Caleb that morning to find the mare, because Caleb suspected there would be trouble with the birth.

I don’t know. I’m going to talk to them. Caleb looked down at the mare and foal again, feeling sick inside. Dancer was his best mare. Why did it seem the sight of the dead horses coupled with the almost ghostly appearance of the Indians on the rise were some kind of omen? He walked off toward the rise and the warriors without looking at Jess, his hands and arms still bloody.

Jess watched, saying nothing. He moved to his horse and rifle, pulling the weapon from its boot. But he knew he would not need it, as Caleb approached the Indians wearing no weapons. After all, they were his kind—Cheyenne. Caleb’s own mother had been Cheyenne, and his Indian name was Blue Hawk—a name that carried respect and brought stories of the old days to the mouths of his tribe. There weren’t many left anymore who remembered when Caleb used to live among them. After his young wife was killed by the Crow, Caleb had left his newborn son with the Cheyenne while he went on a mission of personal revenge, single-handedly attacking and killing over and over until his very name brought fear into the heart of the fiercest Crow warrior.

But that had been a long time ago, many years before Jess had ever met the man. He watched Caleb move up the hill toward the Indians. Jess could do nothing for now but stand and watch, ready for action if it was necessary.

As Caleb walked closer to the intruders, he thought how the steamy heat of the evening made them appear almost as a mirage, but they became more distinct as he came within a few feet of them. They looked down at him from horseback, but even though Caleb was on foot, they could see he was a tall and powerful man. He looked as Indian as they, dressed in buckskins, his long, black hair tied into a tail at the base of his neck, a thin white scar running down the left side of his face. That scar was put there by a white man when Caleb was sixteen—the first white man Caleb Sax had ever killed.

What do you want? Caleb asked the Indians in their own tongue.

I am Gray Cloud, one of them, perhaps thirty, answered. He nodded to the two who sat on his left. These are my friends, Bent Leg and Bear Man. He turned to an older man on his right. This is my father, White Horse. We are from the Northern Cheyenne. You are Blue Hawk?

Caleb nodded, looking at White Horse. I remember the name White Horse. But it has been many years since I lived among the Cheyenne. Did I know you then?

The older man nodded: I was young like you. My own father, Sits Too Long, he remembers you best. He still tells stories about Blue Hawk.

Caleb felt the faint rush of desire to ride among them again but pushed it away. I remember Sits Too Long. He must be very old now.

White Horse nodded. Old and dying.

I am sorry to hear that. Caleb detected a sadness that was more than just mourning the coming death of a loved one. But surely you have not searched for me just to tell me about Sits Too Long. The conversation continued in a mixture of the Cheyenne tongue and sign language.

White Horse nodded. Three moons ago we came here among our southern relatives. While we were here, we were told that the one called Blue Hawk was again living in Cheyenne country. We were going back north, for out in the villages there is much spotted fever and bad coughing. Many are dying. Most of our own relatives have been lost to death. But I have had a dream, and because of this dream I have come to see Blue Hawk before we go north.

Caleb sighed. Eighteen hundred forty-five had been a very bad year for the Cheyenne. Measles and whooping cough were ravaging the Indians, wiping out close to half the Cheyenne south of the Platte River. I’ve heard about the sickness. It saddens my heart.

The Indian nodded. White man brings it. I am afraid for my son.

Caleb nodded. I understand that kind of fear. I have lost many loved ones, including two sons. Their eyes held, two men of kindred spirit. You say you come because of a dream, Caleb spoke up.

There was great respect in White Horse’s eyes. "Ai. But I also came just to look upon the one called Blue Hawk again, to help me remember the days when the Cheyenne were strong. Now, because white men come and kill the buffalo and divide up the land and bring disease, our strength is failing. It warms my heart to see the one called Blue Hawk still standing tall and strong in spite of his many years."

A faint smile moved over Caleb’s lips. I have been on this earth fifty winters—fifty hard winters.

White Horse nodded, his eyes moving to Caleb’s bloody arms and hands. The blood on your hands is from the birth of the foal?

Caleb nodded. The mother and foal both died.

White Horse met Caleb’s blue eyes. He tried to decide if they were an ordinary blue made bluer by the dark skin and black lashes that surrounded them, or if they truly were a much deeper blue than he’d ever seen in any white man. How odd that this Indian of legend had such blue eyes—the eyes of his French trapper father.

You live like a white man, Blue Hawk. But it will not always be so. The blood on your hands tells you this. Living against your spirit has been a struggle. I know this even though I do not know you well. It is in your eyes. You live like other white men, but that life has not been good to you. Your real desire is to live among us.

Caleb held his eyes. I gave up Indian ways a long time ago—for a white woman.

A sudden gust of wind made some of White Horse’s hair blow across his face. He shook it back. I have heard. They say it is a great love you have for this woman. There are one or two who remember when you left the Cheyenne to go and find this woman you once knew as a child in the white man’s world.

I would die for her. And you are right. My heart lies with the Cheyenne. But as long as my woman breathes, I will live in the only way she can survive. But if I asked her, she would come and live with me among the Cheyenne. I won’t ask it of her, because it would surely end her life much sooner. She is not well.

White Horse nodded. I have come to tell you that in my dream you lived among us again. You rode against the white men with us. Your face was painted, and many spoke again with great honor about you as a warrior. You were alone. It is my duty to tell you of this dream, so that when the time for decision comes, you will know what to do, where you belong.

Caleb’s chest tightened painfully. He had no doubts about the dreams of an old Indian warrior. He believed in dreams and visions as much as any full-blooded Indian. He knew what the dream meant, and the thought of being without his Sarah brought great pain to his heart.

You will come back to us, Blue Hawk, White Horse continued. You will die with the Indians among whom you were born. Your spirit will return to the earth. Your tears will mix with the rain; your blood will flow into the earth over which the Cheyenne have ridden since days we can no longer remember; your voice will cry out with the wind. You are still among us, Blue Hawk. You have always been among us. Our hearts are one.

The man touched his forehead as a sign of respect, as did Gray Cloud and the other two Indians.

Caleb stood almost transfixed. Surely the spirit of Maheo had given White Horse his dream and had sent the man to seek out Caleb before going back north. White Horse’s understanding of his own spirit astounded Caleb. He vaguely remembered the man as a youth, but it had been over thirty years since he had lived among the Cheyenne. Surely it was a supernatural experience for the man to know so much about Caleb and his own inner struggles. That could only mean the spirits were calling Caleb—calling him back to where he really belonged. But he couldn’t go. Not yet.

Thank you for telling me of your dream. I will pray that the spirits will bless you and keep you and your son from the disease that has killed so many others. May the wind be at your back as you head north.

White Horse nodded. I will see you again, Blue Hawk, when you are again Cheyenne.

The man turned his horse and rode off. The others followed, Gray Cloud giving Caleb a lingering look first, as though he looked upon some kind of sacred spirit. Caleb watched them until the horizon suddenly swallowed them and made it seem as though they had never been there at all. He looked down at the dried blood on his hands and arms, then turned around to see the mare and foal still lying dead on the ground, Jess still watching, standing near his horse.

For some reason Caleb had trouble making his legs move, but he finally managed to descend the small rise and walk back to Jess. His mind whirled with thoughts of Sarah. Was Maheo trying to tell him his days with the woman were numbered? No. Sarah was everything to him—everything.

What the hell did they want, Caleb? Jess asked when he came closer. A chill swept through him when Caleb’s blue eyes met his own. Jesus, what’s wrong?

Caleb thought about explaining, but much as he loved Jess Purnell as a son-in-law, how could he truly explain to Jess what had just happened? This was something much deeper than anything the two had ever discussed. And perhaps there was no explaining it in words after all.

It was just someone I used to know when I lived among the Cheyenne, he finally spoke up, his voice strained. He’s headed back north—heard I lived around here and wanted to see me again. Now let’s get these horses buried.

Caleb managed a smile of appreciation for the man’s concern. That’s all it was—really. I’m just upset to hear that a lot more Cheyenne are dying from measles than I thought.

Jess watched him go and get a shovel from the gear on Jess’s horse. He sensed whatever had happened, it was better left alone unless Caleb chose to talk about it. Caleb returned and began digging. This is a hell of a loss, he muttered, his eyes tearing. I loved Dancer.

Sarah looked up from the basket into which she had been putting her clothes. The sun was setting fast now and a storm was coming, rolling in from the western mountains. She was glad her wash was dry, but she was worried about Caleb. He and Jess had been gone for hours.

Wind whipped about her skirt and face as she hurriedly took down the rest of the wash. Sarah never ceased to be amazed at how fast a storm could move in on these plains, or how quickly it would leave again, moving east to vent its fury on others in its path.

She stooped to pick up the basket and move it farther down the line. At forty-seven Sarah Sax had the appearance of a woman years younger, in spite of the hardships of having lived many years on the open plains of Texas and Colorado. Her reddish-gold hair was still thick but showed a hint of gray and had lost a little of its shine.

Her fair skin was no longer quite so fair. The prairie sun had seen to that. But it was still smooth, except for tiny age lines about her green eyes, eyes that still sparkled like a young girl’s whenever she looked upon the man she had loved almost her entire life.

Surely it had started back at Fort Dearborn. Could it be true that place was a growing city called Chicago now? She and Caleb had been through so much since those childhood years when the uncle with whom she had been living brought home the nine-year-old half-breed Indian boy called Blue Hawk. Tom Sax had kept the wounded boy and named him Caleb; Sarah had helped teach him English and white man’s ways. They had become like brother and sister, and then close, loving friends . . . and then lovers—lovers who had been cruelly separated for years until they found each other again later in life. That had been in 1832, thirteen years ago. Thirteen years was all they had really had together—thirteen years when it could have been thirty.

Now she was plagued more and more with spells of shaking and weakness, as well as bouts with pneumonia. Every time Caleb happened to come upon a doctor traveling through Bent’s Fort, he corralled the physician and brought him to the small Sax ranch a half day’s ride away to get another opinion of his wife’s health. But no doctor could come to any particular conclusion, and all left tonics that were supposed to help a woman’s ailments and give her more strength and energy.

None of them had worked, and from their smell and taste, Caleb guessed that most contained plain whiskey. Sarah was convinced the source of her problem was drugs forced into her years ago by her first husband, Byron Clawson, the man she was forced to marry after he had accomplished a plot to convince her Caleb Sax was dead. The baby she carried in her belly then, planted there by Caleb in a moment of tender, loving passion, had needed a father.

Would the horror of those years without Caleb ever leave her? She could only thank God that the son she and Caleb had after they were reunited did not seem affected by her ailments. James, twelve now, didn’t have his father’s Indian looks but his eyes were blue like Caleb’s. The boy’s skin was fair, browned only by the sun, not naturally; and his hair was a sandy color, with a reddish hint to it under the Colorado sun.

Sarah also had to thank God that she had found her daughter, the baby conceived in that passionate and youthful love affair with Caleb; the baby her husband had stolen away from her and put in an orphanage. Lynda was her name—the name given her by the orphanage. Several years later Lynda had found her mother in St. Louis where she was living, and together they had found Caleb in Texas with his Cheyenne son, Tom Sax.

Life in Texas had been good at first, until the war for Texas independence. Even though the men had fought in the war, the ensuing methodical extermination and exiling of Texas’s Indians had left the Saxes nearly penniless and without a home, forcing them to flee that new republic and settle in Colorado.

Now there were just Caleb and Sarah, young James, and Lynda, who was married to Jess and had two sons of her own, and who remained near the parents she had never known until she was sixteen years old.

Tom, now thirty-three, had left for California, searching for the happiness he had been unable to find since losing his first wife, Bess, to cholera back in Texas.

Now Sarah could see Caleb and Jess finally returning. No other man sat a horse the way Caleb did. Sarah could see the fringes of his buckskin clothing dance with the rhythm of the horse’s gait, could discern the ease with which he rode the animal. Most of the time he didn’t even use a standard saddle, preferring the flat, stuffed buffalo-hide saddles Indians used, sometimes riding bareback.

Caleb was good with horses, the best, as far as Sarah was concerned. But starting up a new ranch and building a new herd at fifty years old was not easy, even for a man like Caleb. More and more settlement in the area had chased away the wild herds of horses from which Caleb had planned to rebuild his stock, breeding only the strongest and most beautiful horses from those he could round up on the free range.

Things had not gone as well as he had hoped, but to Sarah it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they had lived through the awful years of besiegement by those who threatened their very lives in Texas, and they were still alive and together. Except for Tom the whole family was still a unit. And even in his absence, Tom was still with them in spirit. He would always be with them. Few men were as close as Caleb and Tom Sax.

Sarah could see the weary, concerned look on her husband’s face as he rode closer and dismounted from the big Appaloosa gelding.

Take care of him for me, would you, Jess, he said then, handing the man his reins.

Sure, Caleb. Sorry about the mare.

Caleb sighed deeply, removing a leather hat and wiping perspiration from his forehead. So am I.

Jess rode off toward the cabin he shared with Lynda. Sarah could see her daughter hanging out some wash in the distance.

Sarah turned to Caleb. He towered over her, his huge frame silhouetted against a setting sun behind him. It was difficult to see his face and she shaded her eyes, noticing his own bloodshot eyes.

You lost the foal?

His jaw flexed. Handsome it was, square, strong, set under full lips that normally framed straight white teeth when moving into his usual warm, provocative smile. But he was not smiling today.

We lost both of them.

Oh, no! Dancer, too?

Caleb just sighed again and walked past her to a pan of water that sat outside the cabin. He hung his hat on a hook and reached for a bar of lye soap, wetting his hands in the water and scrubbing them vigorously. He said nothing for several long seconds, working the soap up his arms to the rolled-up sleeves of his buckskin shirt, scrubbing some more.

Sarah watched, saying nothing. She knew he would tell her more when he was ready. She noticed the dried blood on his arms and a little on his shirt. He rinsed off, then picked up a towel that sat beside the pan and walked to a watering trough nearby. He dipped his hands into the cleaner water and splashed some over his face, then picked up the towel and wiped off the water, running the damp cloth around the back of his neck.

I don’t know what happened, he finally spoke up, his voice troubled. Who knows in these things? In all the years I’ve raised and bred horses, there are still things I can’t explain. The foal was breech. I had to turn the damned thing myself. Hell, I’ve done it before. He threw down the towel. And it always worked. But this time it didn’t. I could tell when I turned it that it was already dead. I pulled on it and helped Mother Nature get the thing born. It was a nice-looking male, but it was dead. We tried to get the mother up then, but she just lay there and— He shrugged and shook his head. I felt so damned helpless. A man thinks he knows everything there is to know, and then he’s confronted with something that makes him feel completely ignorant again.

Sarah moved closer, meeting the blue eyes she loved so much, feeling his pain. I’m sorry. These things happen, Caleb. We know that. There will be other foals.

She saw the irritation in his eyes, the impatience. That’s what I told myself last year, and the year before that. But I can’t find enough really healthy horses out there to begin with, and when I do, half of them don’t breed well. It’s like everything has been against us here.

Caleb, you know what we agreed to about all of that. We agreed to be thankful we’re all still together and no one was hurt. We’ll be all right.

He turned away, staring out over the horizon. A small black, humpy line could be seen there, the distant ridge of the Rockies to the west.

It’s been three years, Sarah. We picked out this piece of land because it was close to Bent’s Fort. We’ve all worked like slaves to get something going here. Tom even stayed on longer than he should have had to stay. But it seems as if I can’t quite get back to where I was in Texas.

No one expects you to build anything that big again, Caleb. We’re surviving and our bellies are full. We’re warm in winter and—

He turned, his look of near anger cutting off her words. That’s not enough and you know it. You can’t be working as hard as you do. I wanted more for you, Sarah. I had so much planned for you. He began unlacing his buckskin shirt, then reached down and grasped the bottom, pulling it up over his head, revealing a flat stomach and a muscular build that belied his fifty years. He was a tall, broad, strong man, who had lived hard and sometimes wild. He had not only fought in the infamous revenge against the Crow, but also the Comanche and the Mexicans in Texas. And his chest bore the scars of suffering the Sun Dance ritual in his teens while living with the Cheyenne. His handsome face was etched with the hard lines of living, and the thin white scar on his cheek seemed to get whiter as the rest of his skin got darker and more rugged with sun and age.

Sarah crossed her arms authoritatively. There’s no sense going over that again, Caleb. You know how I feel about it. Texas is behind us, and I’ve never asked for a grand life-style. Just finding you again and being with you is all that matters.

He tossed aside the shirt, putting his hands on his hips and looking down at her. To see them together—he so tall, dark, and broad and sometimes fierce looking; she such a small woman, soft and white—it was an almost humorous picture.

I know how you feel, he answered. "And I love you for it. But even if you’re satisfied, it still isn’t enough for me. It’s what I want for you. If they had let me alone in Texas, I could have given you the life you deserve. But when a man’s life is more than half over, it’s not easy to rebuild all over again."

She stepped closer, putting her hands to his waist. You still have some fine horses to take to the fort next week, and Lynda made some beautiful quilts. I have two boxes of handmade clothes that will bring some good money in Santa Fe.

He put his hands on her shoulders. Sarah Sax was a talented seamstress, had even made a living at it in St. Louis during the years they were apart. The clothing she made was immaculately stitched, strong and lasting.

You’re busy enough with the general chores of a woman and making most of our own clothes. I don’t like your putting in all those added hours just for extra money. You need your rest.

She reached up and grasped his wrists. What’s really wrong, Caleb? It’s more than the dead mare and foal. Is it Tom?

He studied her a long moment. She was still so beautiful to him. All he could ever see was the seventeen-year-old Sarah with whom he had fallen in love. She had always been so small, and now she seemed tinier than ever, losing weight as she aged rather than gaining, so that her waist was still slender and her skin still smooth, and her green eyes were still bright and provocative.

There had been times when she had cried over the fact she had never gotten pregnant again after having James. She had dearly wanted at least one more child. But whatever the physical reason for no more pregnancies, Caleb didn’t care. He was glad their frequent lovemaking had not led to another conception.

You’re too perceptive, Sarah Sax. And you’re right about Tom. I can’t help but worry about him. He decided to let her think Tom was the problem. Why worry her with the story of White Horse’s visit and the man’s ominous predictions? If he told her about the dream, she would only suffer the guilt of thinking she was keeping him from the life he truly wanted to live—among the Cheyenne. That was how she would interpret it at least. It was true he missed that life, but to have Sarah was all that mattered.

Tom Sax is a grown man who is more than capable of taking care of himself, Sarah was telling him reassuringly. You’ll be getting a letter from him soon telling you everything is just fine. And maybe he’ll find himself a woman to love—someone who will make him as happy as Bess did. That’s what we really want for him, isn’t it?

He leaned down and kissed her cheek. Got any supper left?

You know I always keep something warmed. Maybe one of these evenings you can be here on time.

He grinned, sensing she needed the smile. They had drawn on each other’s strength, as they always did. He would put White Horse’s visit out of his mind. He could do no more than take a day at a time. But he would not give up his desire to make a better life for his Sarah. Where’s James? he asked.

He’s out in the shed reading. You know James. He’d rather stick his nose in a book than go out on a roundup. He’s got in the habit of going out there with a lamp and reading where he can be alone as often as he can. I swear if I didn’t remind him of his chores, he’d let them go forever and even forget to eat. All he thinks about is those books. He surely has the equivalent of a good education by now, with all the reading he does.

Caleb said nothing. He and James were as different as night and day. He loved his youngest son dearly, but there was a growing barrier between them, and Caleb didn’t have the slightest idea where it had all begun. Perhaps it was simply the fact that their spirits were not in tune. Caleb Sax was all Indian. James’s looks and actions gave no hint that his father’s Indian blood flowed in his own veins. Nor did he show the tiniest sign of Caleb’s own Indian spirit.

Cale around?

I think he’s off with those Cheyenne boys again. Sarah shook her head as they headed toward the cabin. That boy is going to break Lynda’s heart, Caleb. He’s so wild, and he’s gone half the time.

Caleb only grinned. Now there was a spirit he understood all too well. His grandson Cale was all Indian, a son born to Lynda, and fathered by her first husband, a Cherokee man named Lee Whitestone. There’s no sense in trying to hold that one back, I can tell you, Caleb told Sarah as they went inside.

Caleb Lee Whitestone was named after his grandfather and father, and to save confusion, the family just called him Cale. Cale was just six months younger than his uncle, James. He would be twelve in December, and his looks and spirit showed no sign of the small strain of white blood that ran in his veins.

Cale’s father was killed by Comanche Indians before Cale was even born, and several years later Lynda had married Jess Purnell. Since coming to Colorado, Cale seemed to be moving ever closer to his Indian blood and spirit. He had begun spending more and more time with Indian boys his age, mostly Cheyenne who camped around Bent’s Fort and traded with the Santa Fe merchants.

Cale had a five-year-old half brother, John, born to his mother and Jess Purnell. John was a grand mixture of his Indian mother and white father, looking mostly white at first glance, but bearing the dark beauty of his mother. His skin was a soft brown, and his hair dark; but his eyes were a lighter blue, like his father’s, and he carried Jess’s broad, big-boned build.

Well maybe when little John gets older he’ll be more dependable than his half brother, Sarah was telling Caleb.

They went inside the small cabin, which consisted of one main room, a bedroom off that main room where Caleb and Sarah slept, and a loft above their bedroom, where James slept.

Sarah moved to the stove and Caleb came up behind, putting his arms around her.

It’s been a strange day, Sarah. He bent over, squeezing her close and kissing her neck. White Horse’s words haunted him.

She smiled at his embrace, turning slightly and looking up at him. Caleb’s mouth met hers in a kiss that told her her man needed her. She would never deny that need, not out of duty, but out of the sheer joy and pleasure she derived from his lovemaking.

His lips left hers and he smiled the smile that always melted her, but she saw a sadness behind it that she attributed to the lost mare and the fact that he missed Tom very much.

Caleb left her and walked into the bedroom to get a clean shirt. Far out on the plains wolves sniffed and scratched around freshly dug dirt where a mare and her foal lay buried. Even farther away more wild things moved—Indians—on their way north, constantly on the move now in a desperate struggle to preserve their way of life and what little freedom was left to them.

• Chapter Two •

A warm wind moved across the valley, carrying with it the scent of the Pacific as it gently moved over Tom Sax. The breeze and the sun felt good after his lonely and harrowing journey over the Sierras. No one would know up there it was supposed to be summer. Up there it was still very cold at night, and in the highest elevations pockets of snow dotted shadowed crevices, old, hard snow that never got the chance to fully melt before the next early mountain winter would just make it deeper again. The snows that did melt drained into the watersheds that fed the green valleys below, turning them into a farmer’s or a rancher’s paradise.

Tom gazed at one of those valleys now, a vast expanse of sun-warmed green that lay in quiet beauty. He breathed deeply of the sweet air. So, this was California. It was even more beautiful than others had described it.

Perhaps here he could start a new life. The stabbing pain of the memory of his sweet Bess was not so sharp now. Was it possible she had been dead ten years already? Texas, all his memories, everything had been left behind.

He adjusted his hat, studying the lovely scene below. Like his father, Tom looked all Indian, but he had never really lived like one. He carried Caleb’s tall, broad build; and like his father he had a hard handsomeness to him that attracted women. He was dark, from his coffee-colored skin to his long, shining black hair to his wide-set eyes, eyes that still showed the bitterness that lurked in his soul over what had happened to his family and their ranch in Texas.

But he could not live his whole life lamenting the past. He was thirty-three years old, and still, since Bess died, he had been unable to settle down again. The last few years his father had needed him to help get the family back on its feet after being forced out of Texas. Now it was time to be alone, to go on to something new. He knew horses and ranching, thanks to his father, and in the valley below he could see beautiful horses grazing on the rich green grass. They were golden like the California sun.

Palominos. He liked palominos. And already he liked California. A man could live a damned good life here, and right now it was mostly Spaniards and Mexicans who lived that good life. But it probably would not be long before Americans decided to get a taste of it. When Tom had left his family behind in Colorado, there had already been rumors that the war was not over between the United States and Mexico. Offers were being made by the United States to purchase vast new areas from Mexico, including most of California. But Tom knew Mexico would never sell. They still had not even acknowledged Texas’s independence, let alone the fact that it was now a state. But now that it was, Tom Sax knew full well that if the U.S. could not buy more Mexican land legally, they would take it by force, just as they had taken his father’s land in Texas by force.

He headed his Appaloosa gelding down the ridge toward the fields where the golden horses grazed. Perhaps there was work here for him. It looked like a huge ranch.

Rancho muy grande,he muttered, studying the vast grazing land and several outbuildings in the distance. Even farther off he could see the main house, just a small dot far off in the valley. This was a big land, California. It reminded him of Texas in its vastness, but it was so much greener.

Tom stopped to dismount and remove his light buckskin jacket. He didn’t need it now. He tied it to his gear and for a moment was tempted to strip down and ride through the valley half naked, feeling the sun on his skin. He supposed it was the Indian in him that gave him those temptations. But riding half naked into unknown territory run by strangers would not exactly be the best way to make friends and find a job.

He remounted, unbuttoning his blue calico shirt partway and adjusting his leather hat, then headed into the valley, his long black hair flying behind him as he urged the Appaloosa into a moderate run.

Caleb drove a last nail into the lid on the box of hand-sewn clothing. He had built the boxes himself, lining them with clean doeskin first and making sure the seams were good and tight so that the clothing inside wouldn’t get wet in case of rain. Sarah had put too many hard hours into making those clothes to lose their value from careless packing.

It still irritated him that Sarah had to do seamstress work to help bring in more money. He worried about her. Her spells of weakness seemed to grow more frequent, and the visit from White Horse over two months ago still haunted him.

All his life it seemed people he loved were snatched away from him. And now he had to submit Sarah to the privations of life in an uncivilized land. It was true Texas had also been uncivilized when first she came to him there, but then he had land and power and many men to protect his own. There he had come so close to being able to give his Sarah the good life she deserved.

Now life was again a struggle. He didn’t mind for himself, but it angered him that in these later years of life Sarah had to work so hard in their effort to start over. The frustration of it tortured his soul, and he cursed under his breath as he packed the clothing. Sarah had stayed up all hours of the night just to add to the supplies he would take to Bent’s Fort and sell to traders going to Santa Fe. It was her contribution, something she insisted on doing to bring in more money.

He knew that if he were white, life would not be so hard for them. It was his Indian blood that got them chased out of Texas, his Indian blood Sarah’s father had hated to the point of trying to have Caleb killed all those years ago, leading to their separation and her marriage to a cruel man. Still, he had never for a moment felt ashamed of being Indian. He was proud of that blood and made sure all his children felt the same pride. She would have it no other way. The Indian spirit in Caleb was part of what Sarah loved about him.

But there was one child who did not share that pride. James’s memories of Texas and how they had been treated there had left scars. Caleb already sensed in James a denial of his Indian heritage. The boy did not look Indian. And for some reason Caleb had never been able to get close to his youngest son. James was not even as close to Cale as he had once been. When they were little, they were practically inseparable. But now Caleb could see the boys pulling in two different directions—James frustrated and angry over his Indian blood, and Cale proud of it. James refused to associate with the young Cheyenne boys who hung around Bent’s Fort. Cale ran with them almost constantly now.

Here are a few more things, Caleb, Sarah told him, coming out with a couple of small items on her arm.

He looked down at her. You’re looking prettier than ever today, he told her, keeping his voice cheerful. The remark was sincere. To him she still looked like the young girl he had run off with back in Missouri—a blossoming, ravishing young thing who had made his blood run hot. She still brought that warmth to his blood at night, when her full breasts were pressed against his naked chest and his fingers became entangled in her red-gold hair.

He put the clothes into the box, grinning over the way she blushed at his remark. It’s amazing to me that I still look pretty to you at all, she answered.

Now that’s ridiculous and you know it. He turned and pulled her into his arms. We’ll be back sometime tomorrow. He bent down and met her lips in a lingering kiss. Only hours before he had been inside her, enjoying the pleasures only she could give him. And we’ll continue what we were doing last night, he added, kissing her neck.

Caleb! she protested jocularly.

He squeezed her close, lifting her feet slightly off the ground, and Sarah laughed.

She looked into his handsome face, letting him hold her in his strong arms. Don’t be too upset with James for pouting over having to go to the fort with you, she asked him, instinctively wanting no problems between father and son.

Caleb sighed deeply and set her gently on her feet. With Tom gone I have to leave a man here to watch over you and Lynda, which has to be Jess. Cale and James both know one or the other or both of them have to go with me to the fort. He put his arm around her waist and walked with her toward the cabin. It used to be fun, Sarah. But now James says Cale always hangs around with the Indian boys, and he complains that there aren’t any white boys his age to play with.

She put her own arm around his waist and squeezed, realizing how much it hurt him that James Sax made it very obvious he was ashamed of his Indian blood. You can’t force a person to feel the way you want him to feel, Caleb, she said carefully, hoping to soothe him. How she wished the two of them could be closer. She prayed for it every day. He’s just at the age where a young man starts wondering about a lot of things, doubting things, wanting to be his own man. You’ve got to let him get things straight in his own mind.

Caleb sighed and faced her again. In the meantime I worry about you more than anything else. He glanced at the wagon and back at his wife. I’m sorry, Sarah—about your having to make those clothes and all. They bring a damned good price. As soon as I get my herd built up again—

Caleb, we’ve been over this and over it. I don’t mind.

She untied her apron as they neared the doorway. Things will work out, Caleb. Now you take those clothes and the deer hides you cleaned and some of your best horses and get yourself to the fort before that supply train leaves for Santa Fe. And James will go whether he likes it or not. I’ve made up a list of things we need and so has Lynda. Come in and eat something now before you go.

She turned and marched into the cabin, adjusting and retying her apron. He gazed after her, realizing she had a way of leading him in spite of his strength and prowess. He had killed a lot of men, fought a lot of battles, but Sarah Sax had a way of making him follow. It made him remember when they were just children at Fort Dearborn and she had taken it upon herself to teach him English and the white man’s ways. In times like this, when she lightly scolded him and marched away, she was like that little girl again, stubbornly taking command and not letting him falter or be afraid.

Father, have you seen Cale?

Caleb turned to see Lynda approaching.

Isn’t he cleaning out the stalls in the barn? Caleb answered as the young woman came closer.

No. Oh, Father, I think he’s ridden off again ahead of you to the fort. Someday he’ll just stay there with those Cheyenne boys and never come back. I just know it.

He grinned. That’s not so bad. He has to try things. He has to decide where he belongs.

Her blue eyes showed their concern. Lynda Sax Purnell was all of her father, with dark skin and a sultry, fiery beauty Jess Purnell had been unable to resist when he had met her in Texas. She was tall and slender with high cheekbones and her father’s vivid blue eyes. It had taken many years for Jess, who had been a drifter, to break down Lynda’s resistance and teach her to love again after losing Cale’s father to death. But Jess’s charm and rugged good looks, as well as his strength and goodness, won her over.

Well, I’m afraid his decision will be to ride off someday with those Cheyenne boys and never return, she answered. Every time he goes off like this I fear it’s the last I’ll see of him.

Why don’t you go help your mother with breakfast and stop worrying, Caleb assured her. I’ve got to be getting to the fort soon. I’ll look for Cale when I get there and give him a scolding for not telling someone before riding off like that. Are Jess and James in the barn?

Yes. And John is trying to help. It’s so funny, his struggling with his little arms trying to rake out the stalls.

He’s a good boy, Lynda. I’m proud of both my grandsons. They’ll both be fine men in their own right.

She met his eyes, her smile fading. So will James, Father. But he’s got to be the man of his choosing. I know his behavior has annoyed you lately, but be patient with him. He’ll find his place one day. He loves you very much, you know. He almost worships you. But he thinks you don’t approve of him because he’s not all Indian like Cale.

Reviews

Get your hanky ready when you read the end of the "Blue Hawk Saga"!I LOVED this series. In the final book the heroes continue to grow older and you see how one person can touch so many lives and change the future forever. I cried and cried the last chapters, this was incredible and I would have loved it to have been split into two books for more detail onthe children's lives, but then again the book was edited perfectly for those who don't want to read every little detail when the cast of characters are so heafty. I am so happy to hear that Ms. Bittner is writing again and I can't wait to enter her imagination again.